


New World Order

by datbenik513



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9349172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datbenik513/pseuds/datbenik513
Summary: People are disappearing. Wealthy people, people with immense power and influence; people, whose decisions can shatter the world.The Muggle authorities are helpless and, as a last resort, make a plea to the Ministry of Magic. Harry Potter, Chief Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement gets involved in the vortex of the events in a desperate attempt to save the world, yet again.





	1. One

The setting sun swept over the Big Apple, painting the buildings on its way into a bright, golden gloom. Its rays caressed the water turning it into liquid gold, lazily flowing towards the ocean just past the Verrazano-Narrows bridge. The streets were still packed, and the sun waved goodbye to the hustle and bustle of the metropolis on its way to restart its eternal cycle after getting a well-deserved rest. It smiled apologetically at the cabby, a Russian immigrant, who has been blinded by one of its stray lights and now was cursing in both Russian and broken English as he searched for his sunglasses in the glove box. Then, as the sun went on on its heavenly path, relentlessly driven out by the night, shadows became longer and paler, until they finally disappeared.  
  
The man – just one man on the streets, at this point – took off his sunglasses and raised his face to meet the last rays of the day. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the warmth emanating from the celestial orb, known in scientific terms as “infrared radiation”. For him, it was merely warmth, a gentle caress of Mother Nature, and it pleased him as no one other. He certainly enjoyed it after the freezing cold winter he'd just left behind, the eight-months long winter up north in Scandinavia.  
  
His eyes roamed on the buildings at the expensive residential area on the waterfront, searching for the one window he'd come for. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of identical or almost identical windows, as far as he could see, but his instincts, aided by a expertly performed Supersensory Charm, were drawn to a specific building where his target was hidden. During his long life he'd learned how to blend in, how to stay out of attention. He let a small smile form on his face as he remembered the ancient proverb: “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” He nodded. This was one of his basic principles which had saved his life more than once during his almost 80 years of life.  
  
He was born somewhere at the end of the twenties, just after the Earth had been shattered by the first of the modern wars and a chain of bloody revolutions, then clean-swept by a pandemic flu taking away fifty millions of lives in mere months, more than the Big Burn in its four years. Fifty million Muggles, fifty million useless, infectious rats, he corrected himself. Contrary to his age, he looked not more than sixty, slightly above six foot, broad-shouldered, with a rather uncharacteristic face, heavy chin and two youthful, piercing, steel blue eyes. His hair – still retaining its original blondness – was cut short in a somewhat old-fashioned way.  
  
The man folded his sunglasses and placed them in one of the internal pockets of the long, black overcoat he was wearing. Putting his hands in his pockets, he set off in a lazy tempo towards the building he'd been watching for the past fifteen minutes, whistling a song, his eyes still transfixed on _that_ window.  
  
Suddenly, he felt someone bumping into him and he almost lost his balance.  
  
“ **Dra åt helvete!** (1)” he swore instinctively, but the other man already flashed an apologetic smile, so he swallowed the continuation. He looked into the eyes of the other man with a piercing gaze until he turned and rushed away from him, shaking his head, as he was trying to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling from the contact with the steel blue eyes.  
  
Muggle scientists would have called it “hypnosis”; in his world it was referred to either as “one-way ticket to Azkaban” or “Imperius Curse”, depending on the current circumstances. He knew only of one single person who was capable of performing this curse wandlessly and non-verbally, his own father, killed nine years ago. In his younger years, such an obvious demonstration of his imminent mental powers would have caused him enormous pleasure. As years went by, however, he learned his _real_ place in the world, he understood the _real_ powers he was holding, and his mind games with these men and women, children and elderly, surrounding him as cockroaches, no longer brought him the level of satisfaction he was craving for. He rose on the next level and had other, more important things to attend to.

* * *

_Mullah_ (2) Kareem Abdoul ibn Kareem was devoid of all cliches the Western world loved to attribute to the Islam. He was a peace-loving, very friendly man, openly calling for dialogue and cooperation of all churches of the world for a better future, to stop wars, tearing the Middle-East apart, causing countless victims, refugees, tears and grief, leading to even more hostility between nations. He met Jewish, Buddhist, Catholic church leaders, received a private audience from the Pope, visited the Dalai Lama in Paris and was a frequent and welcome guest – partly because of his erudite nature – at most major TV stations of the world.

Barely fifty years of age, _Mullah_ Kareem has been elected as Secretary General of the Islamic Society of North America, the biggest Islamic organization of the USA, much to the distaste of the more old-fashioned, more radical, more traditional clergy leaders, who'd rather preferred a more hardcore leader. Barely a month ago the police arrested a man who'd been hired “to rid the Islamic world from this shame”. Yet, _Mullah_ Kareem continued to work for what he'd believed in and he was gaining followers by the thousands.  
  
It was shortly after 8 pm when the speakers of his computer came alive and the digital _muezzin (3)_ started to chant, calling all faithful Muslims of the world to the _salat am-maghrib_ , the prayer at sunset. He rose from his desk where he was consulting the evening newspapers. Having taken off his sandals, he performed the ritual washing of his feet, rolled out his expensive, 4-by-3-feet, handmade carpet, and, heading towards _al-_ _Ka'bah_ (4) sank into a comfortable meditation pose and closed his eyes. This carpet was one of his greatest treasures, a gift from no less than His Majesty Hussein, King of Jordan for his fiftieth birthday, made by the very best rug manufacturer to have ever existed. It was very well worth its weight in gold, but for _Mullah_ Kareem, this gift had a deeper, more symbolic value, a token of appreciation of his efforts from the most progressive Head of State in the Islamic world.  
  
When he ended the prayer, he remained in his meditation pose, just to clear his mind and think. This was his favourite time of the day and he enjoyed the tranquillity of the moment.

Slowly rising from the carpet, he gently rolled it up again. He stretched his legs and went into the kitchen to make a coffee and grab some _baklava_ (5) from the fridge. With the cup in one hand and a small tray loaded with sweets in the other, he walked up to the huge window, occupying the whole wall of his study, overlooking the magnificent view at the waterfront. “There is always something magnificent in the dying of a day and the birth of a new one,” he thought while he enjoyed the last golden rays of the sun and a healthy bite of the crisp _baklava,_ graciously enriched with sweet syrup.  
  
A loud knock stopped his train of thoughts. “It must be the housekeeper,” he concluded. She came four times a week, normally between _asr_ (6) and _maghrib (7)_ , which means today she was really late. With an exasperated sight he placed the cup and the tray on his desk, and went up to the door to open it.  
  
In the corridor stood a man, with blond hair and piercing, steel-blue eyes. “He must be in his sixties,” Kareem concluded.  
  
The stranger spoke in perfect Arabic, with the slightest hint of an accent Kareem could not place.  
  
“ _Aassalaamu Aleikum, Mullah Kareem! (8)”_  
  
“ _Wa-Aleikum Aassalaam!_ _(9)”_ Kareem answered the greeting the same formal way and invited the stranger inside. This was usual practice; he'd been receiving visitors all the day round, mostly completely unknown people.  
  
The stranger acknowledged the gesture with a curt node and stepped inside. With several quick looks he memorized the interior of the study and smirked. _“This will be easier than I've thought. No security, no cameras, nothing. But then, what chance would any Muggle security stand against me?”_  
  
Kareem closed the door behind the guest. “What can I do for you, Sir?” he inquired in his usual, polite tone. The steel-blue eyes pierced him again and Kareem got an uneasy feeling that he shouldn't at all have let this man into his apartment, which was justified to full extent when the man started to speak.


	2. Two

Special Agent Lee woke with a very bad headache. It felt as if a dozen elephants were dancing sarabande on her forehead. Her ears were pulsating, her bloodshot eyes filled with tears of pain. No matter what she tried it wouldn't go away and she wondered if the headache had anything to do with the twelve tequila shots she'd had last night at Arlene's Grocery at the birthday party of her sister, Brittany. Having had three coffees with her breakfast, three dark, strong Italian espressos without sugar, the pain succumbed to a manageable level and she gave herself the green light to drive to the office. Even being a non-religious person, she silently prayed during the half-hour long drive to Headquarters so that she wouldn't accidentally kill anyone on the road. Luckily, the highway was not that crowded and she had a rather relaxing drive as she put on her favourite Lacuna Coil CD and sang together with Cristina in her pleasant voice.

When she arrived, she parked her yellow Mustang Convertible at her private spot under the building and went up two storeys with the elevator to Personnel Entry. Having cleared the daily security routine, she clocked in and took the stairs towards her office on the fourth floor. She had a slight form of claustrophobia, which she – until now – had managed to keep a well-preserved secret during the yearly compulsory medical and psychological checkups. When asked about her strange preference, she always joked about extra pounds gained during office hours, which normally did the trick, no further questions asked.

Having graduated from the Academy two years ago, Special Agent Lee and her two best friends, Jackie and Christie were fortunate enough to have been assigned to the same Squad Theta where they were immediately baptized Siamese Triplet for being completely inseparable. They were the perfect team together: Christie, the strategist, Jackie, the techie and Lee, l'agent perfect, with or without a weapon. Nevertheless, they'd spent these two years at boring office work, without ever having a real case assigned to them, and by now Lee was seriously asking herself the question if this was what she wanted to make of her life.

With an exasperated sigh, the tiny agent threw her heavy attache-case on the floor. Frantically rummaging in her desk drawer, she fished out a bar of her favourite Nestle chocolate from there, took a delighted bite from the sweets and rushed for the pantry for another refill of coffee, what would be her fourth one in something less than an hour.

“Hey, Hobbit!” Christie lovingly brushed the hair of her best friend. The Irish redhead was a little less than a foot longer than Lee. Lee only smiled at her antics. 

“Hey Chris, did you manage to get some sleep last night?” she inquired with a playful spark in her hazel eyes.

“Honestly Hobbit, never slept that well in my entire life. Next time I have insomnia, I'll make sure to have a bottle of tequila handy,” she admitted, while consulting her pocket mirror and after careful consideration applying her favourite lipstick. “Oh no, not him again...”

Turning away from the coffee-maker, Lee followed Christie's eyes. She caught sight of Brian, Tactical Commander, entering the office, followed by an out-of-breath Bernie, their Squad leader. Brian was a very good-looking, handsome gentleman in his mid-fifties, somewhat resembling a mixture of George Clooney and Richard Gere, an experienced, cunning old fox almost all female agents – and secretly some male ones as well – were hopelessly in love with. He had one irritating habit. He was a movie freak and gave everybody in the department nicknames derived from the names of his favourite actors and actresses. The very first day he baptized Shannon Uma Thurman, making her instantly hate him. Overhearing Lee's nickname he decided it really fit her, but the very first time he tried to call her Hobbit Lee very clearly and maybe slightly too loudly explained to him that it was the privilege of her best friends only. Later having apologized to the Commander, they called it a truce and settled for Lana – after Lana Turner, of course – rhyming with her given names, Lee Anne.

Without even taking note of them, Brian headed straight to the meeting room they were using for their usual morning briefings. 

“Triplet, with me. Now!” barked Bernie, a usually calm, somewhat restrained former Marine. The girls, by now joined by Jackie, cast a curious glance at him, but said nothing. By now they'd learned to obey direct orders immediately, so they collected their scrapbooks and PDA's and rushed to the meeting room. The other agents curiously followed them with their eyes through the door, but the blinds were closed almost immediately and a hushed, but distinctively audible buzz signed that the meeting room had been electronically scrambled.

“Triplet, thanks for joining,” started Brian without too much ado, no trace of irony in his voice. Piercing the girls with his sea-blue eyes, he nodded at them understandingly.

“Eight? Nine?” he inquired, barely suppressing a smile. Lee flushed red. Barely audibly, she muttered a word. Bernie shook his head in disbelief. 

“Special Agent Lee, could you please repeat it again, for all of us?” he requested in a formal tone. Lee flushed deeper.

“Actually, Sir, it was twelve shots,” she repeated, this time louder. 

“That's a good girl!” laughed the Commander. “Am I safe to assume you've won the contest?”

“No, Sir,” admitted Lee, lowering her head, “actually the tequila won. I've never had such a horrible headache in my entire life before as this morning.”

The Commander looked at the girl with a trace of sympathy in his glance. “Are you able to attend?” he inquired; he'd never have admitted it in public but despite that confrontation of theirs he'd grown fond of the tiny girl.

“Yes, Commander, thanks for asking,” answered Lee in a formal tone, trying to remain emotionless, but silently she had to admit that she was somewhat flattered by the sudden attention of the Commander.

“Ok, Triplet, here's the deal. This is your first real assignment,” started Bernie, taking the lead, “your 'baptism of fire'. There were two disappearances within 24 hours, one in NY, one in Washington, and the Bureau is taking over the investigation from the respective police departments.”

“Sir, may I ask who were the people who disappeared?” inquired Jackie, who was the most observant from the girls. She already started taking notes on her PDA; she was all in mission mode.

“Yes, you may, agent Slocombe.” Brian opened his briefcase and produced five identical files bearing the infamous red “Top Secret” logo on the cover, giving each of them a copy, keeping the fifth one for himself. Lee gasped loudly and stopped her mouth with her hand. This was it, the moment she'd been waiting for ever since she'd set her signature under the admittance form.

With a questioning look, she looked up. Bernie nodded silently and all of them opened their files. Lee quickly, with hands trembling from sheer excitement, rushed through the handful of pages and maybe a dozen Polaroid photos, then looked up again.

“A Rabbi and a Mullah?” her voice reflected her state of disbelief. “Are you kidding, Sir?”

“I can assure you, agent Sarrazano,” stressing her title, Brian turned serious, “I would love to, but I'm serious. Sometime during the last 24 hours, Mullah Kareem Abdoul ibn Kareem, resident of New York City, Secretary General of the Islamic Society of North America, and Samuel Levi Rosenbaum, Chief Rabbi of the United States, resident of Washington D.C. have disappeared from their offices, without leaving the slightest trace and haven't been seen ever since. These gentlemen are two of the religious leaders of this country.”

Measuring the girls with his glance, Bernie leaned back in his chair. “Go through your files, Triplet, you've got five minutes!” he commanded, checking his watch. 

Acknowledging his order, the girls went silent and concentrated on the reports and evidence material, every now and then taking short notices. Just like in the good old times at the Academy, doing our case studies, Jackie dreamed away for a second.

“Time's up, ladies. Your ideas! No thinking, just say the first thing on the tip of your tongue. Five minutes. Go, go, go!” Bernie snapped his file shut and with an impatient gesture nodded towards the girls. Brian, while silently enjoying himself, produced his Mont Blanc fountain pen and his notebook, ready to take notes.

“No signs of violence, no signs of struggle, no kidnapping,” started Christie somewhat timidly. The Mont Blanc scraped a few words. “You wouldn't struggle too much either if someone held a .44 against your forehead. I'd assume, agent Mulcahy, that you'd prefer to go silently and hope for a better moment to escape. Further!” retorted Bernie, but gave a curt, approving nod.

“I wouldn't have allowed anyone point a .44 at me, for one...” mumbled Christie barely audibly; she had to admit Bernie was right or at least he had a valid point.

“No farewell letters found, either at their offices, or at their homes. No obvious suicide. Could be an accident, though,” interjected Jackie. Brian measured her with an approving glance. “That's an option, hospitals and morgues need to be checked. Can't completely exclude suicide, though,” he went on.

Christie shook her gorgeous head. “With all respect, Sir, two identical suicides? Too much of a coincidence and too few evidences.”

“I still prefer the kidnapping idea,” Lee stood up and walked over to the flipchart, drawing several bullet points. “One: an atheist who's got fed up with God's ideas. Two: someone, who wants to destabilize the status quo in the Middle East, kidnaps an important Jew and an important Moslim and lets the two sides blame each other. Three: a bigot Christian on a modern Crusade.”

“Too much of John Grisham, if you ask my opinion, agent Sarrazano.” Brian's eyes laughed but his voice was serious. 

“Sir, we have to check out if they had common friends or enemies, if they had appointments with the same person or persons,” countered Lee.

“Then do it, agent Sarrazano!” snapped Bernie in a mocking harsh voice; he couldn't mistake the joy in the girl's eyes as she got permission to carry out her first individual investigation and was secretly amusing himself. “If you need to fly to DC, Susan or Cathy will arrange the ticket for you on the first available flight.”

“With your permission, Sir,” with a deep blush on her face Lee collected her things and without waiting for his answer rushed out of the meeting room. The other four followed her with their eyes, the commanders with certain amusement at her antics, the two female agents with a hint of jealousy and pride at the same time. 

“Agent Slocombe, your idea. Hospitals, morgues, 'lost & found'. Agent Mulcahy, written plan and a detailed analysis of the events and evidences so far. Request feedback from your colleagues via scrambled telephone lines only. At 18:00 report back to me. That's it.” With a nervous gesture Brian dismissed the meeting. When the girls left, he turned to Bernie. 

“Eager, aren't they?” he inquired absentmindedly, lighting a Camel with his antique Zippo and offering one him as well from his leather port-cigars.

“They were best of class at the Academy but got somewhat rusty here. They want to prove themselves,” the Theta Squad leader replied, massaging his aching temples. 

“Maybe they are even too eager to do so,” he mused while standing up and opening the blinds.

“Watch out for them, will you? I don't want them to get hurt on their first mission,” Brian clapped him on his shoulder.

“Me neither, Commander, me neither...” the former Marine agreed, looking deep into the Commander's eyes. “Care for a real coffee instead of this instant crap?”

“You know bloody well I can never say 'no', don't you?” admitted Brian, throwing back his chair and standing up in one smooth movement. “Sue, we're off for half an hour. We're on the phone, if need be.” 

“Right-o, Chef!” Susan laughed, instantly redirecting the two incoming phone lines. “Will you think of your favourite secretary while you are drinking your Honey Delight?” she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“Oriental Mocca, with cinnamon, right?” inquired the Commander, nodding his agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N. Below are the translations of the marked phrases.
> 
> (1) “Go to Hell!”, Swedish  
> (2) a man, educated in Islamic theology and sacred law, Arabic  
> (3) the person who leads the call to the five daily prayers, Arabic  
> (4) the most sacred site in Islam, Arabic  
> (5) sort of sweets, common in the Middle East  
> (6) “afternoon”, Arabic  
> (7) “sunset”, Arabic  
> (8) “Good day, Mullah Kareem!”, lit. “Peace be with you!”, Arabic   
> (9) Formal response, lit. “Peace be with you as well!”, Arabic


End file.
